


Roomful of Literature

by LavernaG



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Famous Authors, Floo Network, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavernaG/pseuds/LavernaG
Summary: J.K. Rowling and a club of famous writers. One-Shot.





	Roomful of Literature

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation. Don't ask me for any.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little bit of silliness, and leave me a review if you do! :)

Joanne closed her laptop with an exasperated sigh, downed the last of her butterbeer and stood up from her desk. She walked across the rich oak parquet and wine red carpet that lay in the middle of her study, and came to a stop at the large fireplace. She reached over to an old silver urn on the mantelpiece, grabbed a handful of fine greyish powder, stepped into the fireplace and declared, "222 Baker Street!"

She stepped out of the slightly smaller and much grimier fireplace at her destination and dusted off her jeans and green cardigan. This was not the best way to make a dramatic entrance—she had discovered that years ago. That is why she had installed the painting of a happy old couple having picnic under a maple tree in the autumn here. The white-haired woman looked up at her from inside the frame and smiled warmly. "Password, dear?" she asked, blinking her big eyes. "You've got soot in your hair."

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," Joanne replied with a decisively serious expression, running a hand through her hair. The painting flung open, and she stepped through the doorway, entering a cosy library with tall bookshelves, red and green furniture and a rather peculiar bunch of people.

Lewis and Tolkien were sitting in two armchairs quite close to one another, clinking their tankards together and shaking with mighty laughter. They were both wearing silly pointed hats, and for some odd reason, neither of them was wearing any shoes.

Their behaviour was being calmly discussed by Oscar Wilde and Eduard Vilde who were perched upon a wooden bench next to the wall nearby, both looking as sophisticated and respectable as ever.

To her right Joanne noticed a blind bearded man in a toga, sitting on a footstool and unbeknownst to him being closely observed by a frowning Margaret Atwood. Lucy Montgomery was making her way over to the pair with a small tray in her hands—she was bringing them some currant wine.

In the farthest corner of the room there was a foreign young man sitting on a writing desk. On his knees he held a curious wooden stringed instrument that he called a kannel; two strange creatures were peeking over his shoulders at the rest of the crowd—they looked as if they were made of metal and wooden tools, their eyes were like burning coals. The young man called them kratts and himself Andrus Kivirähk.

He was clearly listening to the indecipherable conversation of the four men sitting in the swivel chairs closest to him. Lev Tolstoy raised a dram glass of vodka to his lips with an exceptionally grim expression. Victor Hugo watched him silently, nodding his head in agreement with his latest declaration. A meaningful, understanding look passed between Pushkin and Shakespeare.

Precisely in the middle of the room there was a small table with an antique tea pot and matching service. Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer were seated in rocking chairs across the table from each other, tea cups in hand and engrossed in a witty conversation. Jane Austen was seated on a pillow at Georgette's feet, her head resting against the older woman's knees and her bright eyes moving from one face to the other.

Oddly enough, a transparent 65-year-old Angela Lansbury in a dark pink pair of pajamas, robe and a yellow windbreaker was inspecting the tea pot with the help of a magnifying glass. Joanne's attention was caught, however, by an intense and complicated handshake between the giggling Bram Stoker and Roald Dahl.

"All right," she said loudly. "Now, which one of you told Stephenie she could write?"

The End


End file.
